Eulogy to Who We Were Before

May 3, 2016
By olivia428 BRONZE, Maplewood, New Jersey
olivia428 BRONZE, Maplewood, New Jersey
4 articles 0 photos 9 comments

You say that you’re sorry, but
I wonder if you are.


You say you want to start over,
but we’ve already passed “Go”
It’s just that you collected
your two hundred
and I didn’t.


I want to ask you what you spent it on, but
you and your race car
are already far ahead, and the
only thing I own is Baltic Avenue
and who wants to stay
there, anyway?


It never used to matter, but now
you just keep buying all the hotels and
I have to pay more and more
to see you. So
I’ve stopped.
And I’m not playing anymore.


This game never used to matter;
in the summer, we had kiddie pools
and in the winter, we had snowfalls
and blank slates.


We reached out to the sun,
and you said you wanted to stay here
And the world was our easel,
so we smeared
bright purples and greens on the
empty sky as our friend
sank below the trees that marched across
the horizon, and the night swallowed us


I remember one day, the snow came and
gratefully, we ran and rained and wrote
and we came inside,
and we drank our hot cocoa on
the couch in the den, our
hands soggy and cheeks wet.
The first picture on my phone is you on that day,
with your headband and crooked teeth
and your hair puffed up
in a frizzy halo.
You are laughing.


When is the last time we laughed together?
when I walk to school,
you’re on the other side of the street
and you turn away.


And then you ran away from me, from all of us,
hid behind your new phone
glossy words
bright friends
and sharp edges. That’s all you are now,
hard and cold and sharp.


Your letter was on crinkly paper, and
you made a lot of promises
that you’re not going to keep.


I caught them in open palms that
were sticky with coming-summer sweat
but like the leprechaun’s gold
my little cousin reads about, they


Where are they now?
Are they dancing and dipping in the
deflated pools in the garage?
Are they making snow angels
throwing snowballs
in the snow in our yards that remains
Or maybe they’re lying on the floor of my room
and I don’t want to pick them up.


I don’t think I do anymore.


The game is over.
I’m done playing.
You can take your game board
and go home.


I’m sorry, but this sorry
is for you with
your dirty feet and shining
eyes and your
way of not caring, how
nothing counted for you except for the
important things.


This sorry is to who we were

The author's comments:

This piece was written about a friend of mine, and though I penned it recently, these are words I have been meaning to say for a long time.

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